


on the tip of my tongue

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: sentence prompts from tumblr: gravity falls edition!





	1. "I really like a man that's good with his hands."

Well, you can’t say you’ve not _thought_ about it, but you can’t say you ever thought it’d happen.

“It” being making out with your boss against his desk, anyway.

Ford really had the gall to just pick you up and _plop_ you atop his desk, sitting amongst crumpled papers and half-chewed pencils, but you’re happily ignoring the hard edge of his journal poking into the small of your back since both of his hands are busy _roaming_ over, well, all of you. You feel one on the nape of your neck and one on your hip, then they slide to your waist, around your middle, both cheeks — he really can’t pick one place to sit for very long.

Not that you mind.

You wind your legs around his and tug him closer, hearing his well-worn boot tip thunk against the leg of his desk and you laugh against his lips, so he diverts his attention to your neck instead, nudging your chin up so he can pepper kisses along the slope and _hey didn’t think he was into biting_. Your grip on Ford’s coat tightens and he chuckles low, the deep rumble from his chest reverberating into yours, pressed against him. His hands move to your lab-coat and he carefully (almost cautiously) pulls it off your shoulders, tugging the sleeves over your wrists and throwing it over his shoulder so he can cop a feel of some scandalous forearms.

He moves back to your mouth and you snake your arms around his neck, attempting to pull him even closer, if at all possible, but after a moment he breaks away because oh yeah breathing is fun too. Hot air from between his parted lips blows onto your cheek before he kisses it. Sap.

“I’m gonna feel really bad if I’ve knocked something over,” you mumble, and Ford laughs softly, shaking his head.

“At this point, I don’t particularly care.”

His hands rest at your hips, wide grip a few curious inches away from slipping lower, and his fingers idly drum against the hem of your pants. “Are you… Are you sure you’re alright with this? — With me, I mean?”

You kiss him again, decidedly less fiery than your last liplock, and you reach up to cup his cheek along with. Ford melts into you, tight shoulders loosening under your touch as he returns the kiss so earnestly.

“I mean it, Ford.” You smile, sweet, before it becomes a tad mischievous. “And besides…”

You move his fingers at your hips southward and Ford tints a wonderful shade of cherry red.

_“I really like a man that’s good with his hands.”_


	2. "I think it's about time we stop avoiding the obvious."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also starring "I want you. Right here, right now."

Sure, maybe you did take this job because your boss is hot. Someone sue you, quick.

The Mystery Shack stands at the fringes of your relative’s hometown, and while you’re couch-crashing they pushed you out the door to the closest tourist trap to get you employed. You could’ve gotten a worse job, you suppose.

Though this Mr. Mystery keeps you occupied when you’re sat alone in the gift-shop. His raspy voice echoes through the Shack and you listen to him waxing lyrical about Goosurkeys and Sascrotches and all sorts of oddities he cut-and-pastes together. Even if you _know_ it’s all ridiculous, his enraptured audience almost throw money at him with every word that comes out of his mouth.

You’re with them in that, to be honest. Whenever the tours end he comes into the shop, ribbon tie loose around his neck and scarlet fez abandoned, and he tells you wild and wonderful stories— half of which you don’t quite know if you believe. But the way he grins when you laugh in all the right places and keep up with his back-and-forth makes your heart flutter every time.

It’s a particularly crowded day when you’re next behind the counter, trying to count every eye in that weird jar to your right, when Stan comes in with another tour group that he sold on buying more of his wares past the wildly overpriced tickets.

“Come on in, folks, we’ve got plenty more money to spend where that came from!”

He stands behind the counter with you, arms crossed, and you turn up from the jar of eyes to find him waggling his brow.

“Pretty busy today, huh? Bet it’s ‘cause of the Butterbird exhibit I put up yesterday.”

“Mr. Pines, it started _melting_ in the middle of your spiel about it.”

“That just made it more—“

Stan’s sentence gets interrupted by the crowd suddenly shifting to the left and pushing him into you, right as the crowd on your side pushes you into his chest. What a convenient happenstance.

“… Interestin’.”

You’re a nose apart for exactly five seconds, but it feels like a millennia. Through his glasses you see him search your face, attention stuck on your lips for a long moment, before the crowds part and you take a step apart. The warmth against your chest disappears (as does the erratic heartbeat you felt through your shirt) and you exhale like you were holding your breath. Well, you were.

Stan adjusts his tie and shakes his head, blinking as if in a daze.

“Well, uh. New tour’s coming in soon, so—“

And with that, Stan’s gone. It’s only as you turn to see the last customer leave that you realize the Shack closed five minutes ago.

— — — — —

You’re organizing those fun little monogrammed keychains when Stan reenters the gift shop.

“What are you still doin’ here? The Shack closed a half hour ago.”

“Some kid decided to mess all of these around,” you reply, looking up from the row of Monica, Monika, and Monique keychains you’re swapping around. “They’re not in alphabetical order anymore so I’m fixing them before I head out.”

“I mean, I wasn’t tryin’ to kick you out or nothin’. Just wondering why you’d stayed so late.”

“Just didn’t feel like going home yet, really.” You don’t meet his eye; he might not remember what happened today in the crowds, but you certainly do. The memory of his breath against your mouth and hands instinctive on your hips makes you fumble, dropping a handful of keychains with a tinny clatter. You sigh, bending at the waist to grab the five or six Monikas that fell from the floor. Some sort of joke about the name babbles out absentmindedly, but when you stand back straight there’s a presence pressed to your back.

_“I think it’s about time we stop avoidin’ the obvious.”_

Your breath hitches. You can’t help it: Stan’s voice breathes hot in your ear, and the Monika keychains lay forgotten in your fist, the silver rings looped over your fingers. There’s his hands at your hips again, wide and calloused palms burning your skin through your jeans.

“Gotta say, I never thought I’d have someone like you starin’ at me the way you do.”

“Not like you’re innocent either.” You turn to face him with something devious tugging at your lips. “You’re not exactly _discreet_.”

Now that you have reasoning behind his constant once-overs and gaze bearing into your back when you walk past, a confidence unlike anything you’ve ever had the nerve to experience takes the lead as you drag your free hand up his chest. He quirks a brow, but his scarlet cheeks and matching smirk tell you all you need to know.

“Heh, you got me there. Good t’see we’re, uh, on the same page,” he murmurs, curving his arms around your back to pull you against him. This close, you can see how he stares stubbornly at your lips like he’s desperate to close the gap between you, but still too nervous to even dare. Without looking behind you, you carefully feel for an empty peg on the keychain stand and slide the Monikas in your hand back where they belong (you put them under Madeline instead, but whatever) so you can move to toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Mr. Pines…”

“Y’know, you _can_ just call me Sta- _aammph_ —“

You’ve never been one for _this_ sort of boldness, but you push his head towards yours and kiss him, grabbing the lapel of his jacket in your fist as his grip tight to your waist, trying to pull you even closer before getting brave and exploring. It’s all wandering hands and slow make-outs until you bite Stan’s bottom lip nearly simultaneously with his grope of your ass and you pull away, breathing heavy. It’s only then that you realize you ran your fingers through Stan’s hair so much that not only is it mussed up beyond belief, but his red fez fell off his head and sits atop the cash register, like it was meant to be there.

“Was that— I, uh—“

“Stan.”

You fix him with a look that makes his open mouth shut real quick. You look from him to the counter, back to him. Here goes nothing, you suppose.

_“I want you. Right here.”_

It’s at that precise moment you feel something hard and self-esteem boosting press against the inside of your thigh, and Stan’s face is a delightful raspberry red when you reach down to, ahem, assess it.

_“Right now.”_


	3. "Don't mind me, just enjoying the view."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also starring "It's been a long day, why don't we help each other unwind?"

Ford must be dreaming, right?

He stops in the doorway to the bedroom and pretends to fix at his sleeves, but his focus lies on you. Back facing him, you smooth out your best formal attire and double-check your appearance in the mirror, oblivious to his presence until his low whistle makes you find his reflection behind yours.

“God, Ford, you snuck up on me.“

_“Oh, don’t mind me. Just enjoying the view.”_

You’ve been with Ford for _how long_ and you still blush like a flustered school-kid at his praise. Suddenly finding a fantastic spot on the floor to stare at, you don’t see him come up and wind his arms around your middle, head resting on your shoulder.

“Ford—“  
“You look incredible,” he interrupts, his hands sliding down your arms to twine your fingers together. “I wouldn’t ask for anyone else to come with me tonight.”

Some university event — blasé when he told you over coffee last week, but when he awkwardly asked if you had formalwear the Dire Importance of the conference ramped up to eleven. “It’s just some department thing”, he said. “Nothing too important”, he said.

“Please wear your best clothes and be ready by six so _the car can pick us up_ ”, he said.

It’s twenty past five now; by some sort of miracle you’re both ready fairly early… except for Ford’s still undone tie. You untangle from his embrace and twist his shoulders to face you so you can do it for him.

“Knowing us, being ready forty minutes before the car arrives is a feat in itself,” you laugh, looping the two ends together. Ford knows bow-ties: regular long ties are a bit lost on him.

“We have some spare time— rushing out the door is usually the norm.” Ford watches the top of your head as you tighten the tie, looking up to make sure it’s not too tight. “Oh, that’s fine. But I do like that we can just… “hang out”.”

“You’re not _that_ old yet, y’know.” You smile before meeting him in the middle for a kiss— a kiss that turns handsy in near record time. Ford can’t find a place to stop as his touch roams over you, warm and soft and oh there’s the bedroom wall against your back. You hitch a leg up around his hips and pull him flush against you, finding your wrist pinned under his firm grip.

“We have to leave soon, remember…” His tone breathes hot against your neck, but neither of you pull away to fix at hair and shirts. His hand moves to your side as yours combs through his newly mussed-up hair, and you lean in to kiss him again, pulling away with his bottom lip caught between your teeth and letting go with a smirk when he shudders.

_“It’s been a long day, Ford. Why don’t we help each other… unwind?”_

“Darling, we— we haven’t even l-left yet.”

You wrap the end of his tie around your free hand and you keep him close, just a breath apart. The leg around him pulls him closer still, and you know that’s not his wallet in his pocket when you shift your hips against his.

“I’m sure the car can wait outside for _just_ a few minutes, can’t it?”


	4. "God, you're perfect."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also starring "I can't stop thinking of your hands on me."
> 
> (professor ford au wink wonk. also mentions of alcohol use)

Ford clicks open the door to his apartment and the two of you stumble in— well, to be fair, _you_ stumble in, arm around Ford’s shoulders and his around your middle, steadying and sturdy. You sit on the floor and kick off your shoes, giggling as one goes flying down the hall. Ford goes to grab it and drops it by its mate.

“You’re so— so nice to me,” you mumble, and Ford smiles, even if it’s a little strained from— worry? Annoyance? Both? You’re not sure. Not that you’d be able to tell in this state anyway.

“Oh, uh— don’t mention it. I have to help out former students, don’t I?”

Oh yeah… Oops. Professor Pines definitely has a ring to it, and surprisingly, he doesn’t wear one. Surprising to you, anyway; ever since you first went to one of his office hours last semester, you’re besotted.

You graduated today— and college graduations are certainly different from your high school one so long ago. You, your roommate, and a few friends went to one of the bars in your college town— one of the further-out ones, however, because your roommate’s been flirting with the cute, raspy-voiced bartender there. Not that you really care; it means Ford (ahem, Professor Pines) could come too, since not many other college students go to the bar on the outskirts of town. With a name like _The Axolotl_ , you’re surprised they’re getting business at all.

All that aside, you accidentally ( _“accidentally"_ ) got pretty drunk. And since you drove to the bar and were obviously in no state to drive yourself home… Now you’re at Ford’s place. And he’s holding out a hand to help you to your feet, which you take, and just about fall into his arms once you get up.

“Easy, easy,” Ford laughs, and you lean against his chest for support as he steps back, the wall making its appearance to the scene with a _thunk_ as it hits his shoulder-blades. You take that moment to shamelessly (drunkenly) ogle your professor for a longer moment than you’re usually permitted: strong jaw, thick brows, soft-looking salt and pepper hair. Even his gaze is soft as he searches your face.

_“God, you’re... you're perfect.”_

Ford stutters, cheeks flushing scarlet as he tries to find the right way to reply, but he falls silent as you drag your thumb across his bottom lip. Your other hand cups his jaw and you _know_ he leans into it, eyelids almost (almost) fluttering closed.

So you take a stab in the dark and close the gap between you, some distant sober part of you screaming in mortification, but it quickly shuts up as you feel Ford kiss you back in full force, though he’s still too cautious to touch. You, however, have no qualms: your hands slip-slide all over his torso, arms, and _lower_ but Ford takes your wrists and holds fast, so you move to thread your fingers through his and he sighs, thankful you didn’t manage to commit that part of him to memory.

“Please…”

You murmur against his mouth and he hums in question.

“I want you to… I want you to touch me.”

Ford pulls away and stares at you, eyes wide, eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hairline. He’s silent, mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish before you kiss him again, and he lets go of your hands to hesitantly hold your hips at a _reasonable_ distance away from his.

“ _I can’t stop thinking about your hands on me._ Anywhere. Everywhere.”

You know you’re slurring but you’re an honest (and very affectionate) drunk. Ford’s fingertips at your hips dig into the sides of your shirt, just a fabric’s lift away from skin.

“Darling, please—“

“Mm, call me all the pet names you want… _Professor._ ”

That sends a jolt through him and you meet his eye, smirking.

“— You’re— You’re _drunk_ —“

“So teach me how to be sober again, _Professor,_ ” you tease, sing-song tone sending Ford’s stuttering excuse into hyperdrive. He takes a breath as you press your lips to his neck, tongue darting out across the skin above his collar before he takes hold of your jaw and pulls you to look at him. Ford’s still red in the face but his gaze feels different; the air between you is heavy, noticeably less innocent. He takes your hands in his and flips you around until this time, your back makes contact with the wall.

“You need a tutor, hm? Well… I’m happy to oblige.”


	5. "I saw that. You checked me out."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also starring "Keep sweet-talking and this could go a whole new direction."

You chat to many a cute customer in your time as wait staff at this roadside diner, but none of them catch your attention quite like this guy does.

He’s pretty tall, you find as he sits at the bar and still measures a head above the woman two chairs away. Dark brown hair, messy and soft, falling in his similarly-colored eyes (the former he keeps blowing out of the latter; apparently he wants a haircut that you don’t think he needs). He’s not local— you can tell by how nobody greets him as he enters, but the other patrons stare inquisitively at the newcomer. You and the other waitress rock, paper, scissors behind the counter over who gets to take his order— you win two out of three.

You go to give him the usual spiel, bent over the counter and leaning on your forearms, and the man lifts his head— _double-takes_ — and you hold his full attention as you welcome him in, tell him your name, and ask if he wants a drink.

“Just, uh, water’s fine. You from ‘round here?”

You tell him no— you moved here for college, and this job makes ends meet. He nods contemplatively as you fill up a glass for him and slide it down the bar to his waiting hand.

“College kid, huh? Didn’t think they made ‘em as good-lookin’ as you.”

 _Well then_. You blush cherry red but try to stammer your way through telling the man you’ll give him a few more minutes with the menu, then turn on your heel and go to the kitchen. The other waitress peers through the order window— you follow suit— and the man’s smirking at both of you, drumming fingers atop the menu’s laminated front.

“Think he’s ready to order, y’know—“

She shoves you back out the door and you smooth your apron over your uniform, pretending you _weren’t_ just flustered out of your mind as you ask the man for his order.

“Well, I was gonna pull that “tall drink of water” line with ya, but I’d rather keep chattin’ to you instead of seein’ you spy on me over the window thing.”

Missed his opportunity there at the beginning of his order, you quip, and the man snorts with a nod. He scans over the menu again and you take the opportunity to give him a quick once-over when his attention’s diverted; no shame in _looking_ , if he seems to be doing the same.

“I’m just gonna have the omelet with ham ’n cheese. Don’t think I’ll go too crazy.”

You scribble it down and tell him it’ll be right out, then turn back to go to the kitchen—

_“I saw that.”_

Saw… what? You say it as innocently as possible, but the man’s knowing grin makes you flush pink.

“ _You checked me out_ , didn’t you? Don’t think I don’t know the look-when-they-don’t — whaddaya think I did when _you_ first came up?”

 _Weeeeeell_ you don’t have a clever retort for that, so in one breath you tell him his order will be out soon; you definitely catch him give you _another_ look as you turn to the window and clip the order slip to the frame alongside other peoples’ orders.

“So… what can I call ya? I can think of a few things but a _name_ would be great.”

You laugh and give it, pocketing your order notebook in favor of offering a hand to shake. He takes it (jeez _his hands are so big_ ), but rather than shaking he turns your hand around and gently kisses the back of it.

“Stan Pines. Pleasure’s mine.”

He’s really laying it on thick, isn’t he?

You can’t help but smile, even if your quiet comment of “charming” punctuates it.

“I try when I see someone I’m interested in.”

Your expression of shock must surprise Stan, because his grin only grows wider as he leans forward on the counter. When you realize he’s a lot closer than you remember, you find that you instinctually moved closer to him too.

“And I gotta say, I’m pretty interested in _you_.”

The cook’s bell dings and pulls you from your reverie and you twist to grab the plates for table four, blinking yourself back to _right you’re working now isn’t the time_ — but Stan watches you come from behind the bar and go to the table regardless. You don’t catch how his cheeky grin turns fond as you laugh at a joke the father of the small family tells. He’s not gonna let you in on that just yet.

Stan’s food comes out next and you stand across from him as he eats, talking companionably and trying not to look _too_ flustered at each of his advances. He’s long since finished with his food by the time you realize it’s nearing one a.m.— and your night shift’s nearly over. But something draws you to him; something in you knows you’re not getting rid of Stan Pines that easily. He catches you checking the clock and looks to you quizzically before you tell him you’re due to check out in ten minutes.

“Yeah? Guess that means I’ve gotta get outta here too then.” He sighs as you hand him the check and you try not to stare as he fumbles in his pockets. Does he… not have the money? Judging by how he bites his bottom lip and tries to dig deep into his jacket’s inner pocket, you take that as a yes.

You slide the check back your way and tell him it’s on you tonight. He kept you company during the longer part of your shift— and he is, after all, good company. Stan’s wide-eyed, staring at you like you _handed_ him the eight fifty for the meal.

“Really? Uh, thanks, really. I appreciate it. … But why?”

You lean forward a little before telling him you’re happy to help people you’re interested in, then (after mustering all courage in your body) wink at him before heading to the cash register to pay for his meal with the ten dollar tip you got from table four’s _very_ nice family. Stan’s shock dissolves into that signature smirk as you turn back to him and tell him to sign the check, just so your boss doesn’t get suspicious. Not that she would, but you’re still covering your tracks.

“Impressive. And here I thought you were just cute wait staff.”

You blush again, even if your mouth tells him he’s not too bad himself for a wandering stranger. Never seen the likes of him before— especially not _here_ , of all places.

“Oh, yeah? Likewise. Nice place ‘round here… Wish I could stay longer.”

You ask why he can’t and Stan sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Nowhere to go. I mean, hell, I couldn’t even catch dinner. No way I’m makin’ motel fees.”

Five minutes ’til you’re done here. The other waitress left at eleven… It’s just you to close up. Some part of you tells you to just ask, there’s no harm in it, the worst he can say is no. The other half’s hiding behind the counter after he’s bombarded you with sweetness and compliments all night.

You follow the first instinct instead and tell him he can crash on your couch if he’d like. You just have to wipe a table or two and then you’re done in here. That same shock from before takes over Stan’s face, and his bright eyes and wide grin following that reads more as excitement.

“Really? Like, _seriously_?”

You nod and grab the spray bottle and cloth, tell him to give you two minutes and he can come sleep with you. — On the couch. In a different room, you stutter, knowing you’ve gone scarlet yet again. Well, that sounded far more suggestive than you meant for it to—

“Oh-ho-ho— _Keep sweet-talking_ like that _and this could go a whole new direction_.”

You whip around to find Stan giving you that same once-over as you’re bent forward over table six. Apparently… he didn’t mind your freudian slip. Rather, he liked it.

You abandon the spray bottle and cloth on the table, deciding the morning wait staff can take care of it, and Stan laughs as you haphazardly turn all the lights off and lock the door behind you. He leads you to a beautiful red car and even opens the door for you to hop in, and you start giving directions as he not-so-subtly speeds away from the diner.

Maybe this particular customer can give you more than just the tip.


	6. "I think you'll be happy to know that I'm not wearing any underwear."

For a connoisseur of turtlenecks, Ford really only has one really soft one, which you, of course, immediately commandeered.

You found it amongst the rest of your laundry that evening, somehow, stuffed amongst your perfectly reasonable fall clothes. After giving it another short twirl in the dryer to fluff it up a little, you put it to your nose and took a gratuitous sniff, because somehow or other Ford’s clothes always smell like him, even after fabric softener takes over the more gross smells. It’s that kinda guy smell, some sort of musk that makes everyone want to wear their boyfriends’ shirts, no matter their age.

So you do. But you dash upstairs before Ford comes in from outside so he doesn’t catch wind of your plan for the night.

Since Stan had disappeared off into town for an overnight (something about “business” so neither of you questioned it), it was just you and Ford in the house for the time being, and you two quiet beings had grand plans of sci-fi movies and take-out. Ford’s a real casanova in that way; his idea of sitting on the sofa with the promise of some cheesy 80s movie and food in hand is enough to make you swoon. Though while you’re usually in pajamas and Ford’s in his “something more…. comfortable” outfit of what he wears everyday (which you’re _more_ than fine with, of course), you decide to swap things up for tonight. Just to see what happens.

Your day’s outfit falls into the laundry hamper and you pull Ford’s sweater on, the feeling of the fabric on your bare skin something new and soft. The fold-over high collar grazes the point of your chin and you tug it over your mouth, his long sleeves dwarfing your arms so the fabric hangs long over your knuckles. You catch a glimpse of yourself in his mirror; bare legs stick out from under his sweater’s hem and you pull a silly pose, giggling to yourself.

Ford’s in the kitchen when you come downstairs, shuffling through the various multicolor takeout menus before he hears you walk in.

“Which would you want more, Thai or— _Oh_.”

Ford turns and faces you, his gaze dragging a long line up and down your form as you lean against the doorway, arms folded across your chest. You airily tell some lie of all your pajamas being dirty and you didn’t think he’d mind if you borrowed it.

“O-Of course not, feel free.” Ford tries valiantly to take his attention off your legs but fails miserably. “Happy you found it if you didn’t have anything else to— to wear.”

You come into the kitchen and meet him at the counter with the takeout menus splayed out across the surface. Scanning over the eight of them, you tap your favorite with your finger.

“Ah, I was hoping you’d say that one.” Ford smiles, winding an arm around your waist and kissing the top of your head. “I was secretly vouching for it.”

You comment on how you _obviously_ knew that, and it’s not just ‘cause it’s your favorite. Nah. Ford snorts and you rest your head atop his chest.

“So… Tell me. Why are you _really_ wearing my sweater in the middle of fall?”

Even Ford’s busted out a thin button-up today, foregoing his trademark turtleneck for something more weather-appropriate. Quick, think of an excuse— a _better_ excuse—

You got cold and none of your pajamas were warm enough, you decide on.

“I thought your pajamas were all dirty.”

He’s got you. Oops.

Electing not to answer, you push the menus back into the drawer and hop on top of the counter in front of him, reaching to wind your arms around his neck and pull him closer. Ford happily obliges, though his knowing smirk makes your face feel warm and pink.

Alright, alright, you just wanted to wear it, you admit, rubbing your leg against his. It’s so soft and comfy. His smile softens and Ford presses a kiss to your forehead.

“That’s what I thought.”

You tug him down to your level and kiss him proper, legs parting and wrapping around his to bring him to you, and Ford’s hands land atop your bare thighs, sliding up to find—

“Y-You’re—“

_“I think you’ll be happy to know…”_

You scoot forward on the counter towards him, and you guide Ford’s hands further under the hem. Ford flushes as red as his sweater and you give him your most innocent expression possible.

_“That I’m not wearing any underwear.”_

Ford’s breath hitches and you tilt your head, batting your eyelashes at him jokingly, but his shock fades into something more… dark.

“Well, with that knowledge… I think the takeout can… _Wait_ , for just a little while.”

He moves to pick you up and you scramble to hold on as he lifts you off the counter, twisting your ankles around his hips to hold steady as he almost beelines upstairs.

In hindsight, maybe you were more thirsty than hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> careless whisper playing in the bg  
> reader: oh gee how'd that happen


	7. "I sleep better if you're around."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from soft sentence starters:  
> https://rosielibrary.tumblr.com/post/185041634040/%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%8E%F0%9D%90%85%F0%9D%90%93-%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%84%F0%9D%90%8D%F0%9D%90%93%F0%9D%90%84%F0%9D%90%8D%F0%9D%90%82%F0%9D%90%84-%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%93%F0%9D%90%80%F0%9D%90%91%F0%9D%90%93%F0%9D%90%84%F0%9D%90%91%F0%9D%90%92
> 
> well ain't that a horrifying looking link

_Thunk._  


You jolt awake to something fairly large falling onto the floor upstairs. Perhaps it’s for the best— the couch is comfortable, but not that comfortable.  


Fumbling up the stairs, you feel around in the dark for each step before you come to the top. Only one door has light creeping out from under the crack… and a voice, muffled, muttering from behind it.  


You knock. Ford?  


There’s a yelp, a stumble, and something falls over. Ford opens the door.  


“Oh! Oh, um, hello. Fancy seeing you here. Wait, that’s not right.”  


You smile at him, stifling a laugh. Is he alright?  


Ford tugs on the collar of his pajama t-shirt, stammering, and it’s then that you notice how red his face is in the low light of his desk lamp. You lean to the side of his head a bit— notice his sheets on the floor, a tangled bundle of plaid next to the bed.  


“It’s, ah, nothing, really…”  


Bad dream?  


“… Yes.”  


Ford mumbles his answer, like he’s ashamed to admit he gets nightmares every so often. Your smile softens, concern in your tone when you ask if there’s anything you can do to help. Ford’s blush darkens.  


“Oh, I’m! Fine! Really, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. And besides, it was just a bad dream. Nothing to worry about.”  


His hands are shaking, you inform him, and he’s red in the face. Whatever the nightmare was, it shook him out of his professional ease.  


“Me, shaking? Nonsense! I don’t— I don’t _shake_.”  


You reach forward and take one of his hands in yours, confirming your suspicion. Ford’s hand twitches in yours, as if to pull away, but rather his fingers curl around yours, tentative and experimental.  


“Well… I suppose I do. Um.”  


You offer to keep him company, just for a while. It’s late— the moon shines on Ford’s hair, illuminating white through the dark brown— but if your research partner can’t sleep…  


“It’ll reflect poorly on our work, yes.” He blinks at you, dazed, as if you’re some sort of wonder he found in the forest. “You always have our best interests at heart, hm? Yes, um… You can keep me company. If you’re sure.”  


You laugh— Ford’s shoulders loosen from their tense tightness, his smile sleepy with affection. Of course you’ll hang out with him until he falls asleep again.  


It’s not your first time in his room, but rather than dashing in to grab his forgotten coat or his left-behind journal, you perch on the end of his bed. Ford sits next to you, but a good amount of space apart. He hasn’t let go of your hand.  


You clear your throat, ask what his bad dream was about. Ford swallows.  


“I, um… The usual stuff. Spiders, ghosts, clowns, small spaces.”  


Yes, but which one? You raise a dubious brow. Unless it was an undead clown spider trapped in a shoebox. Ford chuckles, wiping his brow.  


“Thankfully it wasn’t _that_ ridiculous. But… I’d rather… not say. If that’s alright.”  


Oh. You nod, immediately apologizing for intruding, but Ford tells you it’s alright, and you turn to face each other at the same time. And somehow he’s a lot closer than you thought he was. Ford presses his lips together, but his gaze darts down to yours as you lick them nervously. Interesting.  


“I know, uh, that you’re my partner— in _research_ —”  


You can’t help the nervous giggle that sputters out at that.  


“But… Can I…? Erm…” 

Yes.  


You know (well, you hope you know) what he’ll say next, and decide rather than dragging it out, to assume you know the question. Ford blinks once, twice, then promptly scoots further forward, closes his eyes… Purses his lips somewhat comically. He’s not done this before, has he?  


Chuckling softly, you close the gap between you and soften his tense pose, squeezing his hand. He nearly falls against you with how quickly he leans into both you and the kiss, free hand soft and nervous on your shoulder. It’s short and small, but when Ford pulls back he’s breathless.  


“Was that okay?”  


Yes, _of course_ , and when you kiss both of his cheeks they flush under your touch. He laughs with you, but gets cut off by a rather loud yawn. Apparently all that exertion made him tired, you tease. He starts in on an excuse, but you wave it off. You’re just messing around.  


Ford almost looks… upset, for a moment, but when he sees your smile shows fond and not fake, he relaxes. The two of you rearrange so he’s lying down in bed, covers up to his chin, and you sit in the armchair at his left.  


“You don’t have to stay—”  


Yes you do. You dare him to contradict, but Ford decides against it.  


“Well… thank you. For staying. And for… before.”  


You reach over and touch his cheek, gently, and he leans into your touch. It’s not a problem, you say, and carefully take his glasses off for him. Ford’s obviously not used to the treatment; he watches you with a slight reverence in his eyes. Or maybe he just can’t see since you took his glasses off. Let’s believe the first one.  


He’s already half-asleep when you start running your fingers through his hair, and he hums in tired content, burrowing into the pillow. Ford mumbles something before he starts breathing evenly, and it makes your heart flutter, just a bit.  


“I have a feeling _I’ll sleep better if you’re around.”_


	8. "You snore in your sleep. But... it's adorable, okay?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from soft sentence starters:  
> https://rosielibrary.tumblr.com/post/185041634040/%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%8E%F0%9D%90%85%F0%9D%90%93-%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%84%F0%9D%90%8D%F0%9D%90%93%F0%9D%90%84%F0%9D%90%8D%F0%9D%90%82%F0%9D%90%84-%F0%9D%90%92%F0%9D%90%93%F0%9D%90%80%F0%9D%90%91%F0%9D%90%93%F0%9D%90%84%F0%9D%90%91%F0%9D%90%92  
> that's still the ugliest url i've ever seen

It’s raining outside. For Ford, that means no scouting the surrounding forest for Manotaurs. For you, that means it’s time to relax, and damn it if you’re not going to _force_ him to do it too.  


You fling the curtains shut on the pouring rain and head downstairs, searching the house for him, when you hear a loud _thud_ from beyond the basement door— flinging it wide, Ford stands knee-deep in a plume of black smoke, coughing and pulling his goggles off with one hand.  


You raise a disapproving brow. Again?  


“Listen— _ack_ — I was just…” Ford blinks as you reach past him to the window, brushing against his arm when you crack it open. Beneath the soot smeared on his cheeks, you swear he goes just a little bit pink.  


“I was… bored, for lack of a better term. Figured I’d get some work done downstairs since going outside _clearly_ isn’t an option.”  


Agreeing with his claim, the thunder claps loud and proud outside. You laugh, but stare him down with your hands on your hips. He should take this day to get some rest, not more work, you tell him, to which Ford adamantly shakes his head.  


“I shouldn’t slack because the weather told me to.” He pushes his glasses up his nose with one gloved finger. “Time waits for no man.”  


Time can be patient until he’s had a nap. You take Ford’s hand and start to pull his gloves off, glancing at him for the go-to; he nods, even if he looks a bit huffy and embarrassed about it. Letting him shuck his coat off himself, you nod in the direction of the stairs and tug him towards them, ignoring his stutters of “wait are we— are we going _together?_ I don’t—“  


It’s fine, Ford. You tell him you won’t get in the bed unless he wants you to, looking over your shoulder to wink at him and his red, red face. Silly.  


Once you get to the stairs Ford detangles from your hand and goes up himself, following you to his room. He slips off his shoes and a loud yawn takes him by surprise, and you can’t help but laugh when he sheepishly glances your way.  


“Suppose I’m more tired than I expected.”  


You’re glad he came to that conclusion at last. Ford flops onto his bed with a sigh, stretching his arms above his head before he sits up to look at you.  


“Y’know… it’s not just me that needs rest. You, erm, look rather tired yourself.”  


You’re about to protest when an echoing yawn escapes you. Oops.  


“Told you.”  


You give him a suffering look as he laughs, readjusting on the bed to lie across it properly, fluffing the pillow under his head. Rather than asking permission, you decide you can beg forgiveness later if needed and lie down on the bed at his side. Ford flushes a lovely shade of red.  


“Oh, so… you’re staying, then?”  


Yes, yes you are. Both to make sure he gets to sleep— which you accentuate with a single, soft boop to his nose— and to get some shut-eye yourself. No harm in sharing the one actual bed in the place. As soft as the sofa bed is in the guest room, you’re already feeling sleepy just from lying down here instead.  


“Well, um. I won’t shove you out, then.”  


And neither will you— assumedly. Maybe you strike the patented “starfish” pose in your sleep and claim the bed as your own. Ford laughs and turns onto his side, facing you, and you get yourself comfy. He takes his glasses off, reaching over you to put them on the bedside table; his hand hovers near your face for just a moment, but he puts it back by his side instead.  


It doesn’t take long until he’s asleep, breathing deeply and soundly, and you nod off after some time as well. Your quick snooze turns into a three-hour nap, you realize when you wake up; it’s still raining, but the sun long disappeared over the horizon. You go to turn to Ford since you turned away in your sleep, but find that something pressing to your back and draped across your side stops you in your tracks. That something, as it so happens, is Ford.  


At some point in the middle of your accidental slumber, he must’ve turned to you and latched on, not realizing who he was in the bed with. You flush scarlet when he pulls you closer, his face smushed against your shoulder-blade and breath warm on your back. As much as you’d love to stay there forever… your arm’s gone numb. You whisper Ford’s name and try to wriggle a bit in bed to rouse him, and thankfully, it does.  


“Mnnngh… Huh?” 

Ford blinks back to consciousness slowly, his arm around your middle tightening as he stretches, but once he recognizes exactly where he ended up, he pauses. Swallows. You can feel his heart thud against your spine.  


“Um… Well. This is quite the… accident. I’m sorry, must’ve, erm… gotten comfortable.”  


Ford pulls back and you feel cold without his arm around you. However, you can finally flip over and shake out your numb arm while he thinks of what to say.  


“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so close, I was asleep, I didn’t know—”  


It’s alright, you tell him, and once you regain feeling in your hand you find his shoulder and squeeze it lightly. He was asleep, he didn’t know… but you didn’t, ahem, dislike it.  


“Oh, you— really? You didn’t mind? … I should do it more often?”  


Ford goes wide-eyed at your admittance and you can tell he’s trying to suppress a smile. You nod, and he grins sheepishly at you when you start laughing at how dumbfounded he looked beforehand.  


“Well, ah… I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Heh.” 

He has something else to say, but he’s hiding it behind his teeth. You give him a look that says “spill the beans” and Ford folds like a bad hand of cards.  


“Erm… Well, I thought I should tell you… _You snore in your sleep."_  


Whatever face you make when you’re shocked makes Ford burst out laughing. He’s red-cheeked and almost giddy when he smiles at you.  


“I didn’t want to wake you and tell you earlier, _but… it’s adorable, okay?”_  


It’s your turn to flush pink. Ford snickers, and he dares to wind an arm around you to pull you close. You adjust so your forehead rests on his chest— and he can’t see your embarrassed face when you smile to yourself.  


Okay.


	9. "I don't mind sharing the blankets with you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from soft sentence starters

You insisted on coming out with him when he went looking for the river sprites in the rain, coming down in sheets, sliding into your collar to race down your spine. Ford tried to stop you from coming, saying you’d catch your death of cold. No, you wouldn’t, you said.  


You _definitely_ wouldn’t do that, you said.  


Ford sighs as he hands you a bowl of soup, shaking his head fondly at you, research-partner-turned-lover bundled up in blankets on his couch.  


“What did you say you _definitely_ wouldn’t do?”  


Get sick.  


“And what did you go and do?”  


Get sick, you mumble, staring down into the chicken noodle depths in your lap. Ford laughs softly, his hand stroking the top of your head moving down to your jaw, tilting you up to look at him. You smile sheepishly.  


“I appreciate your dedication to our work, darling, but there’s a limit.”  


You call double standards— _he_ went out in that abysmal weather yesterday without a care in the world, why is he so protective of you?  


“I think we both know the answer to that one, don’t we?”  


Ford brushes his thumb along your bottom lip and you steal a kiss as it passes through. You say you’re _fine_ right as you sneeze, and Ford merely quirks an amused brow at you. Sure you are.  


“While I’d love to go out and actually find the sprites today, it seems as if the weather got worse overnight. Forest’ll be too muddy to get any proper work done.”  


As if to prove his point, lightning cracks outside, thunder shakes the foundations of the house— and the lights flick off. Ford goes to flip the switch, but the room stays resolutely dark. You look up at him and ask if he planned this to get a vacation day; he flushes pink and adamantly shakes his head, but he’s grinning cheekily at you all the while.  


“I, ah, obviously not. But this is an interesting coincidence, hm?”  


You laugh, as hoarse and weak as it sounds, and start to swallow down the soup as Ford finds a lighter and candles. He brings a pack of tealights into the living room and sets at least six on the coffee table in a row, and they flicker with pale light when he sets each one aflame.  


“Do you need anything while I’m up? Water, tea, more blankets—?”  


A book would be rather nice, you admit, slurping the rest of the soup and handing him the bowl. Ford nods and disappears into the kitchen, leaving you with the candles for company. You burrow down into the blanket nest he built for you and sniff, leaning your head back against the cushions of the couch and watching the rain. It’s peaceful at the moment, if you’re honest with yourself; maybe you hate the rain, maybe you love it. Regardless, this is rather nice. Especially when you’re being waited on hand-and-foot by Ford.  


“This is the one you’ve been reading, right?”  


Ford comes back in, book in tow— and it is indeed the one you were reading yesterday morning before you left. He’s paying attention; even the smallest things with him make you smile. You nod and take the book from him, scooting on the couch to give him room next to the Blanket Nest to sit at your side. Ford settles in with a book of his own, and the two of you fall into an easy silence, accompanied by pages turning and candles flickering that harmonize with the rain outside.  


Until you catch it, from the corner of your eye. Ford shivers. He shuffles on the couch until his legs bend beneath him, the arms of his sweater pulled over his knuckles. You’d say it’s cute if you couldn’t feel his icicle-like toes sneaking under the blanket, knocking into yours and nearly freezing your feet. You ask if he’s alright, since it feels like his feet are getting frostbitten.  


“Hm? Oh, well, it is a bit chilly, isn’t it? But I’m fine, really.”  


His teeth are chattering.  


“N-No they’re not.”  


You laugh and mark your place in your book, putting it down on the coffee table (a safe distance from all the candles, mind you). Tugging the blankets out from under you, you throw some over Ford’s shivery self, reaching over and around to tuck him in, swiftly kissing his cheek as you settle back down into your spot. You’ve probably kissed him a hundred times by now, but with each one his delightful face tints a delightful pink when he turns to smile at you, affectionate and sweetly sleepy. _You don’t mind sharing the blankets with him_ , you say into his shoulder, tucking your head under his arm so he wraps it around you.  


“Well, admittedly, this is much better. Thank you.”  


You tell him it’s not a problem— but if he tries to poke you with his cold toes again you’re stealing them all back. Ford’s hum of amused approval reverberates through his chest under your ear, and he leans down to press his lips to the top of your head.  


“That’s a deal.”


End file.
